


The Whims of Fate

by mulbr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Grey!Hermione, Just a plot bunny, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Slightly OOC characters, Time travel trope, not in a fluffy way though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulbr/pseuds/mulbr
Summary: After months of running from Voldemort following the elimination of the Order of the Phoenix at the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione is mysteriously sent back in time to Tom Riddle's senior year. What could go wrong?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Voldemort
Comments: 4
Kudos: 91





	1. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this will be three chapters or five. I have it written out, and will be posting a new chapter twice a week. This was just a plot bunny that came to fruition after I found myself with a massive amount of free time on my hands due to the COVID situation. If you're a curious reader of my other fics, yes, I have written more chapters and yes, they will be updated soon. 
> 
> I skip over a lot of "build up" because this fic will be relatively short and I don't know if it's necessary to delve into the details of how Hermione got to Tom Riddle's time so much as what the result of her being in his time will be. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

**Part 1**

* * *

She hates that the most prominent thought in her mind when she sees him with her own eyes for the first time is centered around his beauty.

Gods, is he _beautiful._ His robes are impeccably fit to his tall, slender body, and his face is adorned with sharp features. His eyes are a dark jade, appearing black more often than not. She sees the flecks of green in the light. He has a commanding presence about him, though his public persona of the polite, generous gentlemen is downright _rage inducing—_

_Beautiful, but dangerous._

She’d been sent back in time to Tom Riddle’s senior year. She knows she’s here to do _something._ Logically speaking, if it had been a mere accident, there’s no way she’d have been in the Forest of Dean one moment and in Hogwarts, disheveled, tired and confused, the next. Professor Dumbledore had rushed to her aid, along with Horace Slughorn, and one Head Boy, Tom Riddle. She nearly collapsed at the sight of it—two professors she knew as old men rushing towards her, many years younger, and _him._

Professor Dumbledore told her he was sure she was a time-traveler after he’d seen the look on her face when Tom Riddle introduced himself. _No one, aside from myself, who knows Mr. Riddle in this time would be so fearful or … cautious of him. The students here, the other Professors—no one suspects a thing._ He also told her that her response is what made him decide to cover for her, as the daughter of an American colleague of his. She’d made the mistaken, then, of telling Professor Dumbledore _everything._ It wasn’t quite the logical thing to do—it must’ve been the emotion that drove her to do such a thing, but she knows that this is the reason Dumbledore keeps a close eye on her now.

She told him about the battle at Hogwarts, how they lost. How her friend Harry, his favorite pawn, died facing Voldemort ne Tom Riddle. How her friend Ron lost his life to a Lestrange, how she was one of few that was able to get away. She ran from place to place—away from death eaters and even Voldemort himself once, who led the charge to find her. Posters of her face plastered across the Ministry, in wizarding neighborhoods, in Knockturn Alley, Diagon Alley, gods, even in _muggle_ neighborhoods—though the photos of her there were unmoving and included a muggle telephone number. The _irony_ that Lord Voldemort went to the extent of asking _muggles_ for help in locating her, without revealing himself, or her for that matter, as wizards. She remembers the laugh she shared with no one but herself when she’d travelled into the neighborhood her parents lived in and saw the poster for the first time. The tears from fear and the laughter from the damn _nerve_ of that monster.

She then began hiding in other places—attempting to leave the country with a Portkey in the Forest of Dean—hit by a stray spell and sent back. She and Dumbledore had surmised that it wasn’t the spell that sent her back, and it likely wasn’t the portkey either. _Fate,_ Dumbledore had said, with that strange twinkle in his eyes, _has a funny way of correcting what has gone terribly wrong._

Though, she isn’t exactly sure what she is supposed to do. Fate damned her to this time to… what? _To change him?_ She laughed at the thought. _To temper him?_ She isn’t sure she can. _To kill him?_ No. She knows she’s strong, she’s bright, she’s powerful. But she realizes he is power _personified_. It is strangely mesmerizing.

Strange, indeed, that she thinks this way of the man who would one day declare Muggleborns as less-than, destroy the foundations of the wizarding world, question _her_ right to her magic, destroy _her_ world. 

She chews her food slowly, half-heartedly listening to one of her housemates, Belinda Ruhmand, complain about an assignment Slughorn had given them earlier in the day. She hears herself speak, “I can assist you with the essay, but you must remember that potion creation is based on theory, which is what the assignment is about.”

She stops chewing and smiles softly. Ron would _certainly_ have called her a swot for that one. She wants to shake her head but doesn’t. No one here would understand. Or perhaps they would. She _was_ sorted into Ravenclaw this go around. Though, she isn’t _quite_ sure how Belinda ended up in Ravenclaw. The girl is positively helpless for most subjects—especially Potions, Runes and Transfiguration. Why she’d chose to take NEWT level courses that she obviously knew little about, Hermione would never know, but she—

She slows her thought process as she feels a light brush against her mind. She tenses, her Occlumency shields raising in defense against the prod into her mind, her magic swirling in reaction. She looks up as she takes a sip of water, eyes landing on the likely culprit.

His eyes lock with hers and he smirks. She immediately frowns.

That damned smirk infuriated her.

She sees it quite frequently. He smirks at her when he bests her in class, especially in Defence. He smirks at her in Slug Club meetings, especially when Slughorn attempts to pair them together as if they’re trinkets of his for him to sit together on a shelf somewhere. He smirks at her in the library when he notices her watching him from her favorite corner – particularly when he’s exiting the Restricted Section, likely learning new and intricate ways to torture someone.

He likes toying with her, because he knows she’s on to him, but won’t reveal his secrets. Days after she arrived here, he’d cornered her. He’d questioned her because he didn’t believe her back story. A halfblood American orphan with an English mother who’d decided to come to Hogwarts.

 _Why Hogwarts? Why not continue at Ilvermorny?_ Because it’s too painful, and she wishes to know more about her mother’s culture.

He barely held back his sneer when she’d said that. Ah, emotion. Too _human_ for Tom Riddle.

Though, as an avid academic, she must admit that his demeanor, his essentially perfect persona, his intellect, his _magic—_ all of it together was purely fascinating. Again, particularly infuriating, as he didn’t believe a word she said. He would ask her questions randomly about her life, her past—as if he had no respect for privacy, no regard for the emotions a recently orphaned child may have regarding their past— _how did your parents die? A motor accident? That should’ve been preventable with two wizards in the vehicle._

He raises an eyebrow at her, and she realizes she’s let her guard down, thinking too much. She isn’t sure what he gathered from her thoughts, but from the look on his face, it was just enough to confirm whatever suspicions he had of her.

_Shit._

She drops her fork with a light _clink_ on her plate and stands abruptly, intent on going anywhere, _anywhere_ but the Great Hall. Maybe out to the grounds for a walk in the snow. She just knows she doesn’t want to be here. Her legs are carrying her out of the room, and she tries to ignore the presence of a powerful magic behind her. She knows he’s following her.

She changes course to the Ravenclaw common room—she doesn’t want him to catch her alone. She isn’t ready to face him—not now that she’s all but confirmed his suspicions of her lies. She doesn’t want to face him, though her hand is tight around the hilt of her wand just in case.

She hears the commanding _click-clack_ of his shoes, likely polished to perfection, as usual. She walks faster, but he maintains his speed. As she rounds the corner before him, she wordlessly disillusions herself, finding an alcove to hide in.

He rounds the corner, and she can see him, and he can feel her magic, she knows, though she hopes she is wrong.

“Hermione,” his voice is like velvet as he runs a hand through his hair, though it falls back into place, framing his sharply sculpted face perfectly, “I know you’re here. Clever as you are, you cannot hide from me.”

She steels herself, tenses again. She concentrates on pulling her magic towards her to throw him off. She has already given herself away, blown her cover in this time, and she hopes Fate would be kind enough to give her a moment before she must explain herself to _him—_

She closes her eyes.

“There’s no use,” he says softly, and she can feel his eyes on her, but she keeps hers shut. Her hand curls around her wand tighter, if its even possible. Her nails dig into the skin of her palm. Maybe she should just Avada him. Surely the horcruxes couldn’t be that hard to find? He’s wearing one on his hand.

She hears his footsteps draw closer, and she inwardly sighs. Maybe he will just kill her. Maybe –

“Hermione.” He’s in front of her now, maybe a foot away. She doesn’t want to open her eyes; she doesn’t want to look at him. “Oh, ever the clever one. The Brightest Witch of the Age, isn’t it? That’s what they called you in your time.” He speaks lowly, carefully. He doesn’t want anyone else to hear him. He doesn’t want them to know—

“I’d’ve expected a bit more Occlumency training in someone with a title like that.” He chuckles, and it sounds like butter, and she’s disgusted at the shiver he sends down her spine.

“ _Finite.”_

She knows the magic is peeling away from her, and she feels exposed. She opens her eyes and finds that he is much closer than she thought, mere inches away from her. She watches the rise and fall of his chest. She doesn’t want to look at him.

He raises a hand over her head, placing it against the wall behind her in the alcove.

“Now,” he takes the other hand and grabs her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

The smirk on his face, the predatory look in his eyes confirms what she already knows—he's going to read her mind. He's going to find out. He will know _everything_ and she will have accomplished _nothing_ , and—she can't help but think, _Harry, Ron, I’m sorry._ She prays that her thoughts can somehow transcend space and time, and reach them. She wants to tell them she loves them one last time, how proud she is of how hard they fought, because no, they didn’t go down without a fight, but— _maybe she will._

He sighs lightly, and the question she dreads leaves his lips. “Where, or, maybe I should be more specific— _when_ are you from, love?” his deep green orbs stare directly, coldly into her fiery brown ones, and she can’t help but snicker. “I’ve known for quite some time that you aren’t who you claim to be. It’s painfully obvious, much to your—and Dumbledore, I assume, dismay.”

“Tom, if you think I’ll ever volunteer that information, you’re mistaken.” She tries to appear calm, but she knows her body gives her away. She’s sweating and her heart is beating fast when he leans in closer, his mouth under her ear.

“As endearing as it is to think you could keep such a secret from me, I require information. Either you give me the information, or I’ll _take_ the information,” he strokes her cheek softly, as he has done before when he’s cornered her, though this time, she knows that he will find everything if given a chance to have a deeper look. “I’ve no reason to kill you, Hermione. You’re … safe, with me—for now.”

She barks out a laugh. 

His eyebrows furrow, and suddenly the hand that stroked her cheek is gone, and he has pulled back to look her in the eyes. Before she knows it, there is a yew wand pointing at her. “ _Legilimens._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind, the Hermione of this fic has spent a lot of time fighting, and running. Her momentary loss of Occlumency shields isn't necessarily surprising if you keep that in mind, along with her not really being trained. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. If you have any questions, feel free to ask! I decided to try writing in present tense for this one, and wanted to get it up as soon as possible so I apologize for it being a tad unpolished. I will likely go through and edit after I splice the remainder of the story up into chapters.
> 
> EDIT: I’ve gone back through and edited some of the blaring tense errors. Y’all, remind me to never try to write in present tense again. I suck at it xD


	2. Part 2

The night Tom found out her secret, everything changed.

He pulls away, a look of genuine surprise overtaking his features. Hermione can't help the tears that streamed down her face—due in part to the headache that was forming from being under an untrained Legilimens wand, in part because the memories she had tried so hard to push away, to forget, to rarely think of – images of her friends deaths, of their laughs and smiles, of their anger, images of _them_ brought back to the surface. He paid special attention to the sight of Bellatrix Lestrange’s torment and torture of her, likely out of some sick satisfaction to see a _mudblood_ being put in their place—

A hand wipes tears away from her eyes and she gasps. Tom has a sly grin on his face now as he says, “Oh, Hermione. Rest assured, the future you’ve lived will not come to pass… not with such a valuable asset by my side, no,” he stops, brushing a stray wild curly away from her face. She gapes at him, not sure she hears him correctly—he shakes his head. “you won’t be returning to your time.”

“Tom—”

“Don’t you want to prevent what you lived? Don’t you want to see those who harmed you suffer?”

 _Yes,_ she thinks. _I want to see you suffer._

He rolls his eyes at her, as if her thoughts are the silliest thing he’s heard.

“In exchange for ensuring your safety, I expect obedience.”

“I don’t need your protection. I can protect myself.”

“Really? Hermione, do you think I would’ve allowed you to be tortured—”

“You’d’ve done worse yourself.”

“That isn’t me.”

“It will be.”

“Not with your help.”

“There is no _helping_ you, Tom.” She is no longer fearful but is full of fiery assurance. She pushes past him with purpose. She needs space, she needs to think.

He does not follow.

* * *

  
Five weeks later, winter break comes.

She is left in the castle with a few dozen students, including Tom, and several professors.

Tom is always with her, much to Dumbledore’s chagrin.

She attempts to shoo him away for the first few days, but gives in when she realizes her complaints achieve nothing with him.

He does not question her about the future often, though, nor does he speak often. He tells his “friends”, his _lackeys,_ that he is courting her. As far as she can tell, he says nothing of her secret.

She doesn’t mind. She knows she is here for him—something to do with him, she is still not sure what. The closer she is to him, the easier it is to ascertain her purpose as it relates to him, to this time. It also allows her to explore her slightly morbid curiosity of one of the darkest wizards of _her_ time - to understand him, to know the monster.

He is not untoward with her; he is polite. He has stopped cornering her, but he is always _there_. She has grown to become comfortable with his presence, as much as she can be.

On Christmas, he sends her an owl. He requests her presence in the Room of Requirement. She finds it odd, as they spend most of their time on the grounds under warming charms or in the library. Tom likes the grounds.

 _The orphanage didn’t much care for actually supervising their wards,_ he’d said, _I didn’t spend much time outside as a child. But when I did, I talked to the snakes. They were the only ones who listened._

She finds that listening to him is saddening sometimes, especially when he speaks of the past or his time at the orphanage. She is never sure if he is telling the truth, but the look of annoyance that crosses his face, the furrow of his brow, the slight downturn of his lips, the twitch of his right eye, tells her it may be true.

_She wonders if he has ever been shown genuine kindness when he talks of his guardians at the orphanage._

_She wonders if Dumbledore ever took the time to show him anything other than outright suspicion, especially when he was a child._

_She wonders if things would be different if he had._

She makes her way to the Room of Requirement on Christmas, still dressed in her pajamas. It is early and most of the inhabitants of the castle are still sleeping, but he knew she wouldn’t be. He is dressed in a simple navy sweater and slacks, loafers shinned to perfection, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes at his need to be dressed in his best seemingly all of the time. The Room has transformed into a copy of the Slytherin Common Room – very typical of Tom, complete with Christmas decorations, likely for her benefit rather than his.

“Happy Christmas, Tom,” she says, a soft smile on her face.

He smirks at her from his seat in one of the armchairs adorning the room, “Happy Christmas, Hermione." Tom reaches in his pocket, revealing a small black box. “Here.”

She takes it from him and opens it. It is a simple emerald pendant, boarded with gold.

“If you touch it with the intent of calling to me, I will be able to communicate with you. In the case that you are ever in danger and in need of my assistance, I will be aware.” He looks pointedly at his ring, “They are connected with a communication charm.” He explains, crossing his left leg over his right as he looks at her.

“Thank you, Tom.” Her smile grows wider, and she watches as the confusion in his eyes grows. He seems not to hide emotion from her, which she finds refreshing.

She beacons for him to stand, and she watches him do so, though she notices the slight stiffness that overtakes his posture as he quickly comprehends her intentions. She wraps her arms around him and hugs him, and he slowly wraps his arms around her waist to hug back. She stops herself from shivering at the return of the gesture, awkward as it may be. Physical contact with Tom always seems to jolt her, though the contact itself was infrequent. He would occasionally put a hand on her waist or shoulder or hold her hand to put on a show for other students - he irritatingly ensured other wizards understood his intentions - but never anything more. 

He breaks away from her almost as soon as his arms had completely encircled her, looking down at her with an emotion in his eyes that she can’t place. “You are most intriguing, witch.” he says, the emotion disappears almost as quickly as it came.

Hermione’s brow furrows as she asks, “Why d’you say that?”

“I have never met someone who is just as polite to their enemies as they are their friends.”

She sighs and steps away from him, fixing him with a pointed look. “I’ve told you before, Tom,” she starts, “I have spent most of my life fighting. I have no intention of doing so now. I believe…” she does not know if she can bring herself to speak the words to him, even though she is sure that he already knows what she wants to say.

She looks down at her hands, thinking of how morally _grey_ her hands have made her. She has hurt people purposely. Killed, even. To protect herself… from _him._ He and his followers – the things they’ve done, the things they did in her time, they were unforgivable. But _this_ Tom was not Lord Voldemort. Not yet.

She looks back to Tom as she finishes, “I believe that being good to people has no ill effect. What could it hurt, when I know what you would become otherwise?” it’s a risky thing to say, she knows, but he shows no anger at her words. He does not show any emotion to her point, but opts for a change in subject as he sighs, “Are you hungry?”

She sits beside him, ignoring his question, “I’ve something for you as well.”

He does not bother to hide the slight shock that he feels but remains attentive.

“I want you to promise me that you won’t use this for anything… nefarious,” her tone is bossy, and the indecisive look in her eyes tells him that whatever she is about to give him is valuable, powerful, or both. She reaches into the pocket of her night robe and unveils a large, velvet green box. He watches closely as she opens it, revealing a necklace. She holds it out to him, nerves apparent. “It’s… well, I’m not sure if you’d know what it is at this point—this is Salazar Slytherin’s locket. In my time, you turned this into a horcrux. I only ask that you do not chose the same path for this – or for yourself.” Her voice is hopeful, a small smile gracing her lips. She was unsure of how he’d feel about her giving him a family heirloom, especially one that she was almost positive he didn’t know existed. She was also worried about what he may do if he figured out what magic it was enchanted with.

She is unprepared for the way he snatches it from her, a heady, greedy look embedding itself into his sculpted features. She watches him closely as he gingerly strokes the serpentine S on the locket, a smirk slowly spreading across his features.

“Hermione,” he says so low that she almost doesn’t hear him. He doesn’t look up as he quietly continues, "you've no idea how valuable this item will be to me. You’ve done well.”  
  
He looks up at her, and as a remarkably familiar red glint flashes in his eyes, he leans forward to claim her mouth with his. Her breath hitches in surprise, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss by snaking a hand around to hold the back of her neck. Tom gradually progresses the heat of the moment, and Hermione responds in kind - unable to deny the reaction his attention has on her. He holds her waist with his other hand now, and continues kissing her fervently, _possessively_. 

" _You are mine._ " He whispers quietly, but the implication of his tone is not romantic. 

Alarm bells sound off in her mind, but the raw _desire_ she feels drowns them out. Her magic dances with his, magnifying her lust for him and his for her. 

_She would later reflect on this moment and realize that she had made a grave mistake._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope you liked this addition to this fic. 
> 
> While I realize that Hermione is acting a bit OOC (and to an extent, Tom), please keep in mind that Hermione is not necessarily 'herself' in this fic. She spent a lot of time on the run before being sent back in time, and while she is aware of how dangerous Tom is, she is battling her own demons from those experiences that may make her more prone to his manipulation. The characterization I have chosen for the two of them will make more sense at the end of this fic. I updated the tags for this fic as well. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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